Life After Death
by brista
Summary: After a traumatic mission, Wendy's pieces get put back together.


**Title:** Life After Death

**Author:** brista

**Rating: **PG-13

**Summary: **After a traumatic mission, Wendy's pieces get put back together.

**Author's Notes: **Comments/critiques/etc., welcome. Also, I don't know why it isn't showing nice white space between my section breaks. If you want to see it look a little prettier, this is all archived on Livejournal. (LJ User: brista)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters, no infringement is intended, etc., etc.

* * *

"Wendy?"

Her body is heavy and she doesn't think she can open her eyes, let alone her mouth. She's so comfortable, so safe, so tired. Let me sleep, she wants to mumble, but the words don't move past her brain. Her arm burns and she blindly feels for it. She wants to put the fire out. She bats her hand around in the air and lands on something warm and solid but it doesn't belong to her. She can't find her arm and decides it must be gone and she doesn't care. Good riddance, arm. She weighs a million pounds – she wants to sleep for a million hours – she'll never open her eyes again.

"Wendy, please answer me."

I'm fine, she tries to say. Let me sleep, she wants to plead. The burning sensation on her shoulder is gone and she feels little tremors shake through her body. Her teeth rattle in her mouth. She's so cold. She starts to reach for a blanket that must be around here somewhere but she can't manage to lift a finger. She's so heavy. It doesn't even feel like her. Maybe she's dreaming. Maybe she's dead.

Suddenly she isn't cold anymore and she isn't heavy anymore. She's lying on the floor of a train, the gentle clip-clip-clip of the railroad tracks waking her from her sleep. Bright sunshine from the windows blinds her for a moment and then he's standing over her, blocking the sun, creating a shadow over her body.

"Rise and shine, sleepy head," he says. He's wearing a paint-stained t-shirt and a pair of grungy jeans, ripped and tattered. "Have you seen my oil paints?" She's light and airy now, floating over herself. From the ceiling, she watches herself jump up from the floor and pull a box of crayons from the bathroom sink.

"Which color, Bossman? Armageddon Dawn or Cold War Steel?"

And then she's back in her body and she turns to hand the box to him, but he's gone. The world is dark again and her hands are empty. She's shivering and feels something wet and clammy covering her skin. She can't breathe. There's something wrapped around her. She tries to lift her hands to pull it away but her hands are frozen or maybe they aren't there. She can't tell. Oh, god, there's something on her, something around her, something slowly choking the life out of her. She's trapped in goddamn Anaconda and she can't do anything.

"Wendy, you need to answer me," he says and she tells him that she did answer him but then he ran away and the lights went off and her hands disappeared but he must not hear her or maybe she didn't really say it because he keeps repeating himself, louder and louder. "Wendy. Wendy! Dubbie, listen to me: you need to wake up!" There's something in his voice she's never heard before: panic.

She feels something pressing onto her eye and she tries to push it away but her arms still aren't listening to her brain so she just lies there instead. Then her eyelid is being pulled open and a bright shines into. She tells him to stop and let her sleep, but her lips don't cooperate and it sounds more like, "Mmmrghmph." The other eyelid is pulled open. More bright light. Then her eyes close and it's comfortable again.

She feels a puff of warm air as he talks. He must be right up against her face. "Dubbie, I need you to wake up. You cannot sleep. You have to stay awake. Do you understand me, Wendy?" She already told him where the oil paints were. Why won't he leave her alone?

"Just poke her with this again," she hears Ida. Wendy struggles to open her eyes. Oh, god, she's so tired. Like she hasn't slept in a lifetime. She manages to lift her eyelids just enough to see a sliver of the sneer on Ida's face and a three inch needle before her eyes clamp shut. Shut up, Tinman, she tries to say. "Mmmgrhph," she actually says.

"Ida, that isn't helping the situation. Please finish running the tests on her blood sample," he says and Wendy wants to tell Dracula to ask next time before stealing her blood. Her comfortable position changes and someone is moving her. Her head spins and she feels like she's being dropped from a cliff. She lands against something soft and warm; she realizes how cold she is again. She wants to tell him to get her a blanket and let her sleep but whatever she's laying on is so soft and so comfortable, the most comfortable thing in the entire universe, she decides. She's going to sleep forever, she decides, and maybe later when she wakes up, she'll beat him at Zombie Massacre.

She feels fingers pulling at her skin and she panics, trying to push away the thing trying to tear her apart. "Wendy, listen to me," and ugh, he's back again, talking, always with the talking. She'll call him back later, she says but her lips miss the message and she's silent instead. "Dubbie, can you hear me? It's me, The Middleman. Remember, Wendy? Your boss? Wendy?" The fingers lift one of her lead arms and starts pulling something wet and slimy from her arm. The fingers bend her arm at the elbow and push it backwards through something tight and constricting and she struggles but then she's free. The air that hits her bare arm is cold and the goose bumps tickle her skin.

"Dubbie, listen to me, we have to get you out of these wet clothes," he says and she's being pulled forward from the place where she lays, her torso landing against a warm, solid body. Her head falls forward like a rag doll. She doesn't think she could lift her head if she wanted to. He's pulling off the clammy thing around her and then her other arm is cold and covered in prickles, too. His fingers grab at something else covering her. A shirt, she realizes, as he lifts each of her arms and pulls it over her head. She shivers, sure that her body has formed icicles and that her brain has turned into an iceberg. He's got one hand on the back her head as he lays her back down. She needs a blanket. Why won't he just give her the damn blanket?

"Open your eyes, Dubbie. Talk to me," he says and he sounds distracted. She's trying, she wants to tell him. She'll open her eyes for him if he just gives her a minute to catch her breath. Her muscles quiver as she feels his fingers touch her exposed abdomen, accidentally finding her ticklish spot. She lifts her eyelids. The light in the room is too bright and she's cold. "Wendy, can you hear me? We have to get you out of these wet clothes." She watches him for a second as he struggles with the button fly on her jeans.

"At least buy me dinner first," she mumbles and she reaches down to unhook the column of buttons for him but her arms are a million miles longer than she remembered. The tips of her fingers jab his cheek. His face is smooth and her fingers move up his jaw and trace the lines etched in his forehead.

"Dubbie, if we don't get your body temperature back to normal –" He keeps talking but his words don't sound like any language she knows and she blinks slowly, her fingers sliding down his face and landing on his cheek as her eyes slowly close. She wonders why they won't turn off the lights. Everything is so soft and perfect, she thinks. She could sleep forever. Then the lights are off.

* * *

She's being pulled up into a sitting position, big hands gripping her by the shoulders. "Goway," she mumbles out of the side of her mouth.

"Hold still," she hears Ida grumble. She opens her eyes and sees the large needle in Ida's hand. Don't stab me with that, she thinks, and she jerks away from her boss's grip. She's going to run if they come after her with that thing. He's too strong and won't let her get out of his hands. He scoots behind her and the mattress dips under his weight, gravity pushing her back into him. His arms are wrapped around her torso, holding her arms down like a straightjacket. He won't let her go.

She feels like she can't breathe and she needs to get away. He's too close – the room is so warm – she's so dizzy. She's wearing a heavy sweatshirt and she's wrapped up tight in a blanket, unable to move her legs. She needs to get away. "Let me go," she pleads but he ignores her. Hot tears slide down her face; the salt stings across her cracked lips.

Ida backs up, one hand on her hip. She shakes her head. "She has to stay still for this injection. If it goes in the wrong –"

"No, I don't – no – " Wendy struggles against her boss and she tries to pull herself out of his grip and off the mattress. She twists in his arms, trying to find a way to slide away from him but she can only manage to lean forward a few inches before the room starts spinning. "Oh – god – " She gulps the air as her stomach flip-flops. She's going to be sick. She just needs to lie down for a minute and they need to keep that needle away from her. His hold loosens slightly as she falls back against him, the side of her face against his chest.

"It will hurt," she says and she doesn't know why she's trying to run from the needle. She's never been afraid of them before but the thought of the sharp metal piercing her skin, breaking into her veins, blood bubbling through, insides coming outside – she feels nauseous again.

He shifts her in his arms and brings his free hand to her head. "Breathe, Dubbie," he says, stroking her hair. With her ear pressed against his chest, she hears the beating of his heart. His warm body rumbles against her as he says, "You have to be still, Wendy."

She takes a shaky breath. It's okay, she tells herself. It's okay. His hand is still running through her hair. She wants to remind him that she's not Lassie and doesn't need to be petted but it's oddly comforting and the adrenaline coursing through her body starts slowing down. Her thick hair is damp with sweat, bangs plastered to her forehead. He pushes them off of her face. His hand is cool against her skin. "Okay," is all that comes out of her mouth.

Ida's hovering over them again. "Keep her on her side," she instructs before pulling up the back of Wendy's sweatshirt. Her hands are cold. Wendy takes another shaky breath. She braces herself for the injection. The needle breaks through the skin at the base of her spine. Her fingernails dig into his side. "Shit," she breathes through clenched teeth.

Ida scoffs as she pushes the needle further in. "Oh, like this is the first needle –"

"Ida." His tone reprimands her and Wendy would smirk at Ida – Ha! She'll take 'robots who get the Bossman smack-down' for 5000, Alex! – but Ida yanks the needle out and rubs something damp against the punctured skin. Wendy closes her eyes and exhales slowly, trying to numb the burning sensation with yoga breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

He smells faintly of Irish Spring and sweat, exactly what she would expect him to smell like if she had ever thought about it before, masculine and comforting at the same time. "She's done, Dubbie," she hears him say. His voice sounds distant and hollow. Her hand is still clenching his side and she relaxes it, one finger at a time. He says something else and she tries to pay attention but she's exhausted again. His chest rises and falls steadily, lulling her back to sleep.

* * *

Wendy opens her eyes slowly and stares at the ceiling above her. The room is quiet. Her mind is foggy and she can't figure out where she is. She can't remember falling asleep. The last thing she remembers is being forced into a coffin-sized chamber, kicking and screaming, fighting the two burly guards and their guns, her body bruised and bleeding. She had pounded against the walls of the tiny enclosed chamber as it filled, screamed until the fumes choked the oxygen out of her. She must be dead now. She moves her mouth to see if it will work. She's dead. She's almost okay with that. Maybe being dead is like an extended vacation, she thinks. She's dead. She can sleep in. Maybe catch up on all those books she had been meaning to read. Oh, sure, it'd be an adjustment at first, but it might be okay. There has to be a silver lining to this, right? So…she's dead. No big.

She tests the words aloud to see how it sounds. "I'm dead." She hears a snort and a familiar face appears above her. "Ida? You're God?"

"Some trip you're on." Ida disappears from her field of vision. "Her body temperature is back to normal. Blood pressure is down and pulse rate is higher than I want it, but with all the toking she does –"

"Honestly, Ida. Has THC ever shown up in any of her toxicology reports?" Wendy hears Bossman's voice and wants to lift her head to see if it's really him but it feel like she's cemented to bed.

"She's friends with dirty hippies. You don't know what kind of tricks they have up their unwashed sleeves."

Her head pounds and pressure nags on her bladder. So far, this 'being dead' thing isn't much different than being alive. "Does Heaven have a bathroom?" She doesn't realize she says it aloud until Ida pops back into her line of vision.

"I'm not changing your Pampers, Princess."

Bossman's face appears above her. His forehead furrows as he studies her face. He looks tired, his face swollen and discolored in places. She stares at the gash along the right side of his jaw, stitched up but still flaming red. "Dubbie, you aren't dead." So she wasn't dead. She lets out the breath she didn't realize she had been holding. She's alive. Okay. Okay, so she's alive. That's a good thing. Being alive is a very good thing, she reminds herself. "Do you think she's okay to sit up?" he asks Ida.

"Probably, just –" Ida stops and stands up, disappearing from Wendy's vision. A buzzer sounds. "New H.E.Y.D.A.R. report," she says after a moment. He sighs and glances towards Ida. "I can take care of this one," she says. "Make sure she sits up slowly."

"Wendy, do you think you can sit up?" he says but she's transfixed by the stitches. She'd seen him bruised before but never cut, never bleeding, never with a scar or bandage or a broken bone. She had wondered briefly after the fight with the Lucha libre wrestlers, when he came out nearly unscathed, if maybe he was an android like Ida. Now she has proof that he's real.

"So you really are human." The concern in his eyes turns to confusion. "What happened?"

"You were held in --"

"No, I mean…" She lifts her arm and her fingertip traces his face near the gash. He doesn't wince but he freezes at her touch and she knows the skin is tender. "This."

"I had to come get you," he says with a shrug. She wonders how much that explains and how much of the story she missed. She notices that her Middlewatch is gone and her hand drops back onto the bed. "Let's get you sitting up, shall we?" She nods. She tries to sit up, but her head only gets an inch off the pillow before she feels light-headed. "No, no, just wait a second, Dubbie." He pulls back the blankets and carefully rotates her body, allowing her legs to dangle over the side of the bed while she stays flat on the mattress. He sits beside her and leans over her, scooting one hand behind her back and grabbing her hand with his other. It feels like an awfully elaborate dance just to get her upright again. "Are you ready?" The room has stopped spinning so she nods. "On three. One. Two." He pulls her into a sitting position and pauses for a moment, still supporting her. She's dizzy again and her stomach feels wobbly.

"You didn't say three," she says, her stomach muscles shaking and threatening a mutiny. His mouth is tight-lipped as he watches her. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath as she waits for the nausea to pass "Okay. I'm good," she says a moment later and he helps her to feet. She stands motionless. His arm is wrapped around her and she leans against him to keep her balance. She glances around the large, expensively decorated room and curls her stocking feet in the thick plush carpet. "Where am I?"

"Guest Suite. Sensei Ping doesn't stay at Motel 8, you know."

"Pretty cushy digs for a paranoid, celibate martial artist." He makes a noncommittal noise, his face grim as he concentrates on walking her across the room. He opens a heavy wooden door and reaches just inside to flip on the light, revealing a private master bathroom. "I think I can handle it from here, Boss."

"Are you sure? It may take a while before your equilibrium is --"

"Wow, watching me use the bathroom? You've got some weird kinks, huh?"

He shoots her a disapproving glance. "Nothing of the sort. I'd just prefer if you didn't split your skull on the sink, Dubbie." She smiles at his no-nonsense attitude but it turns into more of a grimace as her face twists in pain from the movement of her cheeks. Okay, so no smiling any time soon, she notes as she tries to make her expression as neutral as possible. His grip loosens and she takes a small hesitant step. So far, so good, she thinks and takes a few more shuffling steps.

A pain shoots through her leg and spreads across her body, sucker-punching her in the gut. "Shit," she mumbles. Her hands reach for the sink, grabbing it for balance. It feels like someone's taking a sledgehammer to her insides, smashing everything inside of her. The room spins around her, black spots clouding her vision before all she sees is a black backdrop streaked with stars. A sob gets caught in her throat and she feels him catching her before they drop to the tiled bathroom floor.

"Breathe, Dubbie." She doubles over in his arms as the sledgehammer inside of her starts swinging harder. Oh, god, she's never felt anything this awful before and she's blind and oh, shit – she wrings one of his hands with her hands. Maybe if she just hangs onto him long enough, she can ride out the wave.

He calls Ida on the Middlewatch and Wendy can't stop tears from sliding down her face. Oh, god, she's blind. She's never going to – another smash from the sledgehammer radiates through her. She knows there's got to be some Sensei Ping mind trick she can use to dull the pain. She grits her teeth and tries to focus. The Middleman is rubbing her back and reminding her to breathe.

"Hold still, Dubbie," he says and she feels something stabbing her arm.

Whatever they shoot into her veins works because a warm numbness spreads through her body, making the tips of her fingers and toes tingle. The gut-crunching feeling fades and slowly, Ida's dour face comes into vision. Wendy's never been so relieved to see that cranky robot's face.

"Maybe next time you'll make sure your joint isn't laced, huh?" Ida reaches for Wendy's sweatshirt and starts pulling it up.

"Hey, hey, hands off, Grabby McGropey," Wendy says, releasing her boss' hand to push Ida away.

Ida glowers. "Sit still, Meat."

"Dubbie, you have several wounds on your torso and she needs to make sure the stitches are holding up." Wendy grumbles and lets Ida pull the sweatshirt up far enough to reveal her stomach. Large pads of gauze cover her abdomen and she watches as Ida's fingers peel one of the coverings off. A glimpse of puffy yellow and purple skin turns her stomach and she presses her eyes shut before she sees anything gory. She thinks it's funny that she can attack zombies and disintegrate alien into piles of goo without blinking but when it comes to her own blood and guts – well, she prefers them all to stay inside of her. She doesn't open her eyes until she feels the sweatshirt pulled back down.

"She's fine. BP and heart rate is back to normal, too," Ida says as she leaves the room.

Wendy wonders how the robot can take her vitals without even touching her, let alone listening to her heartbeat, but she dismisses the thought as Bossman helps her to her feet. She holds onto the bathroom sink and takes a deep shaky breath. She catches his eye in the mirror's reflection. "I'm fine," she says but she isn't sure who she's trying to convince. Then she sees her face. "Oh, fuck," falls out of her mouth before she thinks to clean up language for him. "Sorry," she mumbles. Both of her eyes are bloodshot and her face is swollen. Her olive skin is marbled with all the Technicolors in Joseph's dream coat and she can see why it hurt too much to smile. Does she even have any teeth left? She runs her tongue along her gums. Feels like all of her teeth are there.

"Wendy?" Her eyes flick over to his in the mirror. He's standing behind her, watching her, his face pursed in concern. He's right there if she falls. Cowboy music aside, she decides, he must be a good and compassionate person to hover around her when she looks like a chewed up piece of dog food.

Her hair looks as if she'd just crawled through the jungle then got shocked by lightning for good measure. She has a fat lip. The neatly stitched gash on her cheek matches his. "I look like a mug shot," she finally says. "And that's being generous."

He touches her shoulder but recoils immediately when she winces at the light pressure. She doesn't even want to know what the rest of her body looks like, how many more bruises and stitches there are. "You've been through a lot, Dubbie," he says. "You're going to need a while to recover."

"You didn't disagree with me," she notes.

A soft twinkle glimmers in his eyes. "Well, I wouldn't lie to you, Dubbie," he says with a teasing smile. She wants to return the smile and reward his effort at making her feel better – or sock him in the shoulder for agreeing with her. "I'll be right outside the door if you need anything," he says and closes the door behind as he leaves. The pain is gone, but a heavy aching numbness has replaced it. She pulls up her sweatshirt and looks at the mess of cotton and tape holding her together.

After using the bathroom, she twists the cold water faucet on. She lets it run over her hands as she stares at her reflection, looking for evidence of herself buried underneath the torn-up, beat-down exterior. Bits and pieces of what happen flash through her mind – being held by three guards easily four times her size – terror sinking in as she realized she was trapped inside the small chamber – a scream escaping her lips as a knife sunk into her belly – the ropes rubbing her bare ankles and wrists raw as she tried to get lose – Wendy starts to panic as the memories continue. _Stop it, stop it, stop it! _Her cupped palms have filled with water and she huddles over the sink as she splashes her face. She turns the water faucets up higher, hoping the sound of running water will cover up the sobs threatening to spill out of her.

She doesn't know how long she leans over the sink but it's long enough for Bossman to tap gently on the door and ask her if she's okay. She doesn't trust herself to say much so she musters up the cheeriest "Uh-huh" she can before grabbing a towel from the rack and burying her face in it. _Get it together, Dub-Dub! _She breathes deeply into the clean terrycloth, her heart pounding in her ears. Then another thought occurs to her. She drops the towel on the sink and opens the bathroom door. "What am I supposed to tell them? Lacey and Tyler. What am I supposed to tell them? I mean, this is – it's kind of noticeable. I look like the abused housewife in a Lifetime movie of the week. And they're kind of going to notice."

He leads her back to the bed and helps her sit down. "Tyler and Lacey know that you're going to be out of town indefinitely, while you work on a new design concept with the Vice-President of International Marketing at our Toronto headquarters." She shakes her head. They're going to want to talk to her and she isn't sure she can handle lying to them right now. "They spoke with you and all worries have been allayed."

"They spoke with me?"

"Well…" He pauses with the expression of a man about to break bad news.

She points at him. "Out with it."

"Ida has the capabilities of simulating –"

"Oh, god! You let _Ida_ talk to my boyfriend!? _Ida?_" She can't even imagine how that conversation went and god, she hopes neither one of them said anything too embarrassing for her to deal with. "Let me guess? Lots of comments about lighting up a doobie and a couple extra about being easy thrown in for good measure?"

"Don't worry, Dubbie. After the last conversation, I modified her directive overrides to include –"

"What 'last conversation'?"

He ignores her question and says, "What's important right now is that you will have the next couple of weeks – or as long as you need – to recover." He watches her face for a second and then says, "You need to get some rest."

Wendy shakes her head. Her fingers are twitchy and she wonders if Ida's cocktail is starting to wear off. "I don't think I could sleep if I wanted to." She starts to stand up again but he touches her hand.

"Stay here. You don't need to be up moving around right now." Before she can argue, he's left the room and she sighs. Alone, with no chance of sleeping. She tries to ignore the need to piece together what exactly happened. She'd been working with Bossman for what? Six months now? Eight maybe? Clearly, whatever happened on this mission was different. Something must have gone wrong. What did she do? Tears start welling up in her eyes again. "Damn it," she mumbles, glancing around the room for a box of tissues. She can't find one and settles for wiping her sleeve across her eyes as gingerly as possible.

"Now, all things considered, bludgeoning intergalactic zombies may be the last thing you want to do, but –" She jolts at the sound of his voice. She sniffles quietly into her sleeve and turns around to see him carrying a television in. He sets the TV on a stand across from the foot of the bed and is out the door again before she can say anything. She tries to blink away the tears. She can't even remember if she had recorded a 47 for him or not. What happened? What did she do?

He strolls back into the room carrying a box. He sets it down and pulls out an Xbox. She's glad he's distracted by hooking up the game system because it gives her a moment to get her emotions undercover. She hates feeling like a big stupid crybaby and she knows that even a superhero Boy Scout isn't immune to the major douche chill of crying girls. He turns around to face her, a big goofy grin on his face. "Gut Wrencher 3, Galactic Contagion, and Primal Combat if you're interested." He's so proud of himself for bringing her the games. It's ridiculously adorable.

"You done good, Boss," she says with a thumbs up, hoping he ignores the squeak in her voice. He narrows his eyes and the grin fades.

"Dubbie –"

"I'm fine, really. Great, in fact. Never been better." If she heads him off at the path, maybe they can skip the whole messy scene.

He tilts his head to the side. "You'll need to talk about it sometime, Wendy."

"Nope." She shakes her head. She is fine. Just fine. She is alive and mostly in one piece and she's got at least an entire week to lie on this amazing king-size bed and play videogames. And she could probably talk him into finding an easel and some art supplies for her. This is perfect, a little vacation. Time to relax. Just what the doctor ordered. "Feelin' good."

"So that's your plan then, Dubbie? Push it all down and ignore it?"

"Yep." She nods. "Sounds about right. I'm thinking denial is the way to go on this one, Boss."

"Wendy…" He folds his arms over his chest. "How much do you remember?"

"Boss, I don't want to –" She sighs. Avoiding the conversation is futile when he's got his concerned mentor face on. "Not much. It's all…kind of a blur." She doesn't want to mention that the only things she does remember vividly involve a lot of blood.

He's quiet for a long time and she can feel him sizing her up, trying to determine the best way to pry the truth out of her. He clears his throat. "What do you remember?"

"You don't have to do this. Look, I – I don't know exactly what happened and from what I can remember, I know I don't want to deal with it right now. When I change my mind, you'll be the first person I talk to. The only person, actually." Tears start clouding her vision again. He's just going to keep picking until she has a total Category 9 meltdown.

"Fine. But there is one thing you do need to know."

"What's that, Boss?" She picks at her sweatpants, keeping her head down. She hears the TV come on.

"I've never been defeated in Galactic Contagion." He hands her a controller.

She swallows back the tears and looks up at him. "Then I guess I'll have to break that streak." His goofy grin is back and they get situated at the end of the bed as the game loads. He fusses over her, stacking pillows behind her and blankets around her. When he's satisfied that she's comfortable, he sits beside her, his posture ruler-straight.

"When I win this game, Dubbie, I hope your feelings won't be hurt too much. It's just a game."

"You sound pretty sure for a guy who's never faced my video game whirlwind."

"Well, I don't like to ring my own bell but I am more experienced than you and very skilled."

She snorts. It's like he has no self-awareness for sexual innuendo. "Is that so?"

He shrugs and pushes the start button on the controller. "I've never heard any complaints."


End file.
